I love the smell of the race track in the morning. Smells a little like bankruptcy.
I'm strangely attracted to the sound of the bugle, the shuffling of horse players clambering to the wickets and the fluctuation of pari-mutual wagering. My relationship with the track is like a lustful affair I’ve been having behind the back of my sports gambling bride for years. I only go once a week because it wears me out like an insatiable college girl.
That's because the track is where degenerate gambling thrives.
The track seems innocent at first - a one minute race every half an hour spaced over the afternoon. A little sunshine. A chance to catch up with old friends and brush up on my social skills. (In reality, I ignore anyone who will recognize me and may attempt to make small talk with me while I beg for numbers to pay me like the lottery).
Last Saturday was no different. I got set up in my private box so I could keep the peasants at bay and prepare myself for the most intense afternoon of excess and hedonism a man can experience with his clothes on.
I skipped breakfast and did a little homework so I could pound the first race. The hope was to double up early so I could start betting some exotics and longs shots with the house’s money.
I spotted a beauty right way: Bamboo Diva. She had a healthy coat with the mane and tail well groomed. Her muscles were firm and ready for action. The philly went off at 2-1 and her eyes were as bright as headlights as they lit the way to my payday.
When I bet the horses I really feel I have a bigger role in my destiny. Punting the ponies is a game of skill and judgment where crunching the numbers properly results in a nice score and a dangerous boost to the ego.
On the other hand, slot machines are found at the exact opposite end of the gambling spectrum. Ironically they are also found at the opposite end of the race track. Slots are the perfect ying to my yang when it comes to my afternoon and there is nothing wrong with diversifying my gambling portfolio.
After I invaded the buffet like a pirate, I hit the slots for dessert.
Some mindless games of chance relieve my stress headache and loosen the knot in the back of my neck from watching those nags whirl around the circle. I fed the machine paper like it was a shredder at Enron and regardless of the loss, there is no better way to kill 20 minutes in between races than by working my chubby dumper into a stool in front of a video lottery terminal.
The machine puts me into a trance with its simplistic jingles and cartoon graphics. After a few minutes I found myself staring catatonically at the screen, continuously dropping my left hand down on the 'spin' button like a judge’s gavel in a kangaroo court.
At the time, the outcome of the spins had become meaningless - I just wanted more audio-visual gratification. A lapse in my gaming concentration allowed the machine brainwash me of my discipline and self control.
As my left hand repeatedly pushed the action button, I had a lowball of scotch on the rocks marinating in my right hand like it was an ice pack strapped to a pitcher’s shoulder who just threw a complete game. The regal beverage calms the swelling my palm receives from whipping it with my program as my horse charges for the homestretch.
By the time the fifth race rolled around, I was down a nickel ($500 to the newbies). The top button of my pants were undone and I was stinky drunk. But it really didn’t matter.
I had enough left in my pocket to get lucky when I slapped a couple hundy down on an exactor box in the 6th with Bellacoola Baby and Lady Shogun. The wager fetched me a handsome reward.
Whether I’m down on my ass or rolling in profits, it’s meaningless until I leave the track. Continued gaming is my primary goal, not my momentary financial situation from race to race. Money simply fuels the main motivation.
I could have left after cashing that ticket, but this is how I spend my Saturdays, not half my Saturdays. That’s why after the 10th race I was only up enough money to cover my bar tab and catch a cab to the strip club.
Everything else gets a silver medal when it comes to the action. The only reason I go to work is because my paycheck acts as an insurance policy against my bankroll.
Girlfriends and relationships take a backseat - how much money can I win over coffee and good conversation? A career gambler believes there is no good in money if you can’t gamble with it. And it’s this very philosophy that has left me at the wrong end of too many interventions.
Rather than getting help when I’m slumped out, I like to start tailing hot prognosticators and fading schleprocks.
I don’t have a gambling problem; I have losing problem. I don’t need gamblers anonomous; I need a refresher course in Money Mangament 101.
It’s only through years of experience, wisdom and introspection that I’ve realized why I can’t stop gambling: It’s because I don’t want to.
Besides I'm only one win away from being cured. I can’t stop now, I'm due for a big win.
Wish me luck.
Recent columns from The Degenerate:
The big win
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